


Forget The Spaceman

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Oh yes, Sherlock/John/Arthur Dent, The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy - Freeform, Threesome!Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy crossover! When Arthur Dent turns up at 221B, it's obvious where Sherlock's thoughts are going to go. John may have something to say about this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget The Spaceman

Door answering is for peasants.

When the sharp rap of the knocker for 221 Baker Street sounds out through the confines of the upstairs flat, Sherlock Holmes remains inert. He stays lying on the sofa as the noise echoes once again through the space, reverberating off the walls and skulls but somehow not muffled by the numerous stacks of papers. Eyes are closed, lips purse as the sound still goes unanswered.

Door answering is Mrs Hudson’s domain.

There’s a vague part of Sherlock’s overdeveloped psyche that recognises the misogyny in that assumption. He loves the lady dearly – as much as he is able to fully ‘love’ somebody, he supposes, in a platonic manner – yet feels it is only right, really, to exploit his landlady’s talents. Those being tea making, shopping, and, of course, answering doors. It would be an awful shame to deprive her of those comforts; she seems to enjoy them so much.

Which is why the unanswered door is beginning to both irk and confuse the detective. He can see no logical explanation for this slip in her duties – she takes her mid-afternoon soother at some point… well, _mid-afternoon_ , but Sherlock can’t pinpoint an exact hour just on sound and vibrations alone; he’ll have to speak to Mycroft about installing cameras downstairs, simply to assuage his curiosity, of course. Not for any suspicious reasons. The small hand of the clock on the mantelpiece is making its way gradually to the number eleven – it has seventeen minutes to go – so there really is no reason for her absence. Perhaps she’s died. How inconsiderate of her.

Finding Mrs Hudson indisposed, Sherlock is forced to resort to another mode of action.

“John!” He calls out into the unhelpful, un-door-answering silence, “John! The door! John? The door, John! Are you there? John!”

This carries on for a bit before Sherlock realises John isn’t even in the flat. Yes, he’d taken one look at the barren shelves of their fridge, let out a couple of curse words directed at the detective, then announced plans for a trip to the shop, so if you could get off your arse and perhaps clear the table of your _shit_ before I get back, that’d be truly wonderful.

That had been an hour and twelve minutes ago. Elementary logic tells Sherlock that his flatmate is probably stood on the other side of that door, carrier bag cutting off circulation to the fingers in his left hand (it would be left, wouldn’t it; John would use the knocker with his dominant hand), temper rising with each second he is left waiting. It’s also likely he’s ventured out in just a jumper; his keys are in his coat and John’s not lazy enough to knock just to save himself a fumble through his pockets. (Sherlock is. Frequently.) The buffeting against the windows suggests wind, strong wind, strong enough to blow John’s anger up a couple of levels and his hair out of its settled style.

Really, he should get the door. Shouldn’t he.

Sherlock stands up then immediately regrets his decision; the world spins and blackens and for a moment he contemplates casting himself to the floor _à la_ Victor Frankenstein (he only reads it to poke fun at a man so helplessly dependent on females) before reality stabilises again and the black spots dissipate. Once John’s stopped sulking he’ll ask him about his blood pressure… or, you know, never.

A knock sounds out again, reminding Sherlock of his task. It can’t be that difficult, can it – he may not have done it before but there’s a first time for everything, is there not? He’s Sherlock bloody Holmes, he’s survived sixty explosions and punched diplomats square in the jaw when the situation necessitated it, venturing downstairs to open the door is going to be, well, to cite the vulgarity of the masses: a piece of piss.

That phrase really is one of his favourites; it sounds delightfully incongruous coming out of his Cambridge-educated lips. Sometimes he likes to assault Lestrade with it just to see the Detective Inspector’s eyebrows rocket up and lips curl in unexpected amusement.

The knock, again.

Sherlock raises his arms above his head, rolls onto his tiptoes, stretches upwards, exhales languidly through his nose and then, eventually, makes his way down the stairs. For a man who so loves to haul himself across urban precipices and round London’s insalubrious back-alleys, he doesn’t half enjoy procrastination.

He wrenches the front door of 221 Baker Street open to reveal a man in his pyjamas. Sherlock snorts.

“John?” He exclaims, taking in the full sight of his friend dressed in a _fashionable_ brown dressing gown, tight red t-shirt and truly horrific striped blue and white pyjama bottoms. The most ridiculous thing of all, however, is that he doesn’t even have the milk. “Is this some sort of… April Fool?”

Sherlock, if picked up on the fact that it isn’t even April, it’s February, will claim that John’s obvious state of sartorial disarray had warped his perception of the calendar months. There really is no other explanation for the fact that John popped out for his breakfast essentials and now has returned… like _this_. Moving on, Sherlock gestures to the brown monstrosity of a dressing gown and then to his own magnificent blue one.

“I’m flattered by your imitation but I’m afraid you’ll never quite… you’ve dyed your hair. Why?”

That’s true: John’s hair is definitely darker, that isn’t just the light. It’s less brown and more… ugh. _Ginger_. John furrows his eyebrows in response, confusion in his eyes.

“I’ve not… who are you? Are you a… friend of Ford’s?” He replies with the distinct air of one thrust into a situation one was told would be straightforward but in fact it’s turned out to be thoroughly complicated and generally a bit of a faff.

Sherlock laughs, “John, stop this. It is ridiculous. You _know who I am_.”

John, once again, seems to take offence at this. “Why are you- stop calling me John, my name’s not John.”

This certainly is a development. Then it hits him: _Oh_. Perhaps this is one of their days. Their silly days they have sometimes, when cases are thin on the ground and Lestrade is embroiled in something serious and boring, and the two of them indulge themselves in being a bit ridiculous. Sherlock might wear John’s jumper for the day and pretend to be his flatmate, going around and proclaiming his love for all things conserve-like and beige. John then prances around – not in the Coat, not even John can wear the Coat – with a magnifying glass being rude to the furniture and practising quick ripostes to the mirror. Some days they pretend to be Bohemian and nineteenth-century, only referring to one another as Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson and speaking in flouncing French Latinate. The infrequent nature of these days makes them highly anticipated and conducive to blindingly brilliant sex.

Perhaps this is a dressing-gown day. Perhaps this is a swap day. Perhaps this is a Victorian day. Uncertainty forces Sherlock to make a stab at one.

“ _Doctor Watson_ , then, get inside and let’s end this absurdity. You go out to purchase milk and come back with an entirely new appearance… what _are_ you doing?”

Not-John is still stood on the doorstep, gazing around and showing no signs of entering their quarters.

Sherlock huffs a quick, frustrated puff of air, “John, get inside.”

“No- do you want to just _stop_ calling me John?” Not-John snaps, turning back to Sherlock with a jerk of his head, looking irate, “My name is _Arthur_ , and I don’t know who you are so if you _don’t_ mind, I’m just going to stand here and wait for Ford.”

Then it starts to make sense. Well, as much sense as the situation can make, when Sherlock is finding his flatmate stood on the doorstep convinced he’s someone else… but, actually, while he’s staring at him like that, he can sort of see the differences becoming more apparent. This John is definitely plumper, and there’s the hair, of course; his eyes seem darker but that might just be down to the altered thickness of his eyebrows. There’s also a matter of the man’s conviction; John isn’t much of an actor, that discipline is usually Sherlock’s, and unless he’s been sneaking out for special training such a convincing display seems quite above his talent. If he were setting out to fool the detective he’d have cracked by now, satisfied with the minutes of confusion generated by his prank, preferring to get out of the cold and into Sherlock’s arms for a smug snog or two.

So is it possible that this man is not in fact John Watson, but instead a body double that has somehow turned up on his doorstep due to some weird coincidence or act of fate?

Well, _that’s_ truly ludicrous.

“You can go now, I’m fine here, thanks.” Not-John-but-Arthur mutters, gazing out towards the main road, pointedly ignoring the pensive Sherlock still stood in the doorway. Sherlock Holmes is not used to being ignored by strangers and this frankly just won’t do.

“No… _Arthur_ … you should probably come inside. That can’t be comfortable.” Sherlock suggests to the man’s profile. Arthur then turns to look at him in dissent; he goes to open his mouth to reinforce that notion but Sherlock gets in before him: “Please.”

That is a rarity. Somehow Arthur seems to know this; he shrugs and then follows the detective inside.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock decides he should probably introduce himself as he leads his guest up the stairs to the flat, “I live upstairs, here, in 221B, along with my partner, John Watson.”

“Oh, the guy you thought I was?” Arthur responds whilst following.

“…Yes.” Eyebrows are raised; Sherlock knows his expressions can’t be seen and that destroys the potency somewhat, but never mind, “You do look very alike.”

Soon enough the pair have ascended the stairs and are stood on the wooden floor of the upstairs flat. Arthur takes a sweeping glance around his surroundings, nods once as if in agreement of an unspoken question, then turns to Sherlock.

“Right, well, I’ll just be here.”

If there is one thing that Sherlock Holmes hates more than anything, more than Mycroft, more than those aforementioned Christmas dinners, more than missing a detail or messing up a case, it is _social niceties_. He makes an insuppressible gagging noise in his throat and gestures to both the sofa to his right and the two armchairs to his left.

“Sit.” He states with unwavering imperative. Arthur shrugs and chooses John’s armchair, eliciting a grunt of amusement from the detective at the sheer… he doesn’t know, but it’s apt. Next the man will be telling him he’s proud of being English and loves _tea_ , or whatever. Sherlock sits himself in the seat opposite and steeples his fingers.

“So. 221 Baker Street. Explain.”

Arthur laughs, “So this is why you brought me inside, to question me? What are you, a police officer?”

“Close enough.”

The pyjama man (Sherlock is subtitling him with that in his head. Arthur: the Pyjama Man) shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable and doing his best to gaze at every other object in the room apart from the man across from him.

“You want to know why I’m here?” He pauses, gnawing his lip, “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got a while.”

“That’s not helpful; that was meant to be a brush off.”

“I am aware of that. I find myself impervious to the pragmatics of propriety.”

Arthur’s eyebrows rocket upwards, he almost regurgitates a laugh, “If you’re going to keep speaking like that I am not going to be able to keep up.”

“Fine,” Sherlock grimaces, “I shall lower my intelligence to that of the masses. So why here, of all places?”

“Will you pester me until I tell you?”

“Undoubtedly.”

A roll of the eyes; a sigh. “Ford told me to meet him here. It may seem random, but I’m only going off what he said. ‘Two-two-one Baker Street, Arthur, I’ll be there at eleven’. That’s what he told me. It’s almost eleven, I should probably…”

Both the men’s eyes dart to the clock; the face affirms Arthur’s prognostication.

“And you were to meet here, why?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter _how mad it might seem_ , must be the truth.” Sherlock recites with smug eruditeness. It’s times like these he feels thankful for thinking up impressive-sounding phrases and storing them in his _massive_ brain. The two men sit and stare at one another as if silently one-upping the other in a game of ‘Who Can Be The Biggest Smart-Arse’. At this present moment, Sherlock is winning.

“I’m a space explorer.” Arthur blurts out after a considerable pause. Sherlock’s first response is to retort:

“That’s impossible.”

“Is it? You said that it was the truth.”

“I said once one eliminates the impossible, what _remains_ is the truth. Civilian interstellar travel is at this moment unavailable to those that aren’t _billionaires_ , and I hope I don’t offend by stating that you don’t particularly look the type.”

“Not if you have your own spaceship.” Pyjama man retorts with an almost smug rapidity.

“And you, I suppose, have your own spaceship?”

“No-”

Sherlock leans back in his seat, emitting a “heh” of self-righteousness.

“But Ford does, now, apparently.” Arthur waves a hand around vaguely, “That’s why I’m meeting him here. We’re going on an expedition.”

“Oh, are you now? Say hello to the _aliens_ for me when you get out there.”

“Okay, I will.” Arthur replies with stoic self-assurance.

Sherlock affixes his gaze to the fireplace, half expecting Father Christmas to pop his round and rosy cheeks out from down the chimney with a “Ho ho ho, Holmes!”. It’s an entirely ridiculous assumption but right now anything seems feasible. Aliens? Spaceships? Perhaps the Tooth Fairy could jump on the Bakerloo line and hand over the fifty pounds she owes him for lost pearly-whites, while they’re at it.

“So you’re a… space explorer.” He remarks after a short inspection of the grate, “Well, that’s logical. Somehow I’m disappointed I didn’t immediately jump to that conclusion.”

Whether the man in the dressing gown honestly feels he’s won the other over or he’s given up on being awkward, it’s not immediately apparent. Arthur shrugs and divulges: “Well, I haven’t been for a while. Before, we used to hitchhike, and that was… an adventure, but since that all ended and we got back to Earth – well, actually, I suppose it is technically _Earth_ , I won’t go into the details – I’ve sort of just been settling down with Trish. But when I got the call from Ford to say he’d gotten his own ship and was I up for some exploring… it was hard to say no. Especially since I’m now living on my own, because of… apparently I’m still obsessed with my past and won’t concentrate on the present and I’m barely even there anymore, or when I’m there I’m not, really, and we tried to start a family but there were complications and- I… _should not_ be telling you this.”

Sherlock turns his gaze back to Arthur, leaning back into the leather of the armchair, “I’d rather you didn’t; there is nothing more annoying than being told things you already know.”

The gingery fellow looks a pleasing cocktail of embarrassment and confusion. Sherlock is entirely familiar with this look: it relaxes him to observe its reappearance in strangers. It gives them a sort of common link, reminds him that he remains an anomaly amongst the vast databoard of normality he calls humankind. Arthur isn’t at all relaxed at just having divulged half his life story (and possibly, unintentionally, part of his medical history) to a strange man in a strange house.

“How can… how can you know that?” He gapes.

Sherlock clasps his hands together and rests the gripping pair against his chin. “What I’m most intrigued about, though, is your attire. You’re embarking on an extra-terrestrial mission and you’re dressed in… _that_?”

“Well, y’see-”

“The style is dated; you can no longer buy those gowns in large retail chains, which is where you’d shop. It’s about six years old, pushing seven, and you’ve still hung onto it? It must mean something to you – sentiment. People do that. You’ve used a different fabric detergent on the pyjamas – which can’t be more than a couple of months old, the colours haven’t faded – to the dressing gown, but you hardly seem a fickle man, you’ve kept an item of clothing for sentiment. That suggests the gown hasn’t been washed since its last outing all those years ago. So why wear it now? You said it yourself: you’ve been sedentary, or at least to some degree, for years; now you receive a phone call inviting you on an adventure. Call is out of the blue, you put on an item of clothing that’s been unworn for years… the two must be linked. The last time you were out exploring, you wore that dressing gown.” Sherlock pauses; the question is hounding him, chewing at his ankles, “But… _why_?”

Arthur appears to have completely given up on hiding anything: “My house was destroyed.”

“And there was nowhere in the whole galaxy for you to stop and purchase new clothes?”

There’s something about this man, the Spaceman thinks, that seems to care more that I was dressed in my pyjamas in a public place than that I was planet-hopping. Surely this can’t be right. Although, to be fair, Arthur has never divulged his secret to anyone before, so he has nothing to compare this reaction to. Perhaps if all men were like Sherlock Holmes he needn’t have fabricated those missing three years of his life as “you know… just… travelling… around… and stuff”.

“I never really thought of that. There was hardly time, what with all the battling of aliens and that.” He responds, canting his head to the left a little in order to seem like a disapproving parent or teacher faced with a daft bugger of a kid. It makes him look rather more like a puppy, but he is blissfully unaware of that.

“Still. You were out in public wearing that?”

“It’s nicer than yours.”

Sherlock sucks in a horrified breath, then swiftly composes himself again. “I am going to ignore that comment in order to not bring attention to your ignorance.”

There’s a silence again where Arthur is unsure whether to feel triumphant or just a bit unnerved. His surroundings have lulled him into a false sense of security: there’s an atmosphere about the place that makes it feel like his home, like he’s always lived here and hasn’t just stumbled there upon orders from his suspiciously absent friend. Some sort of trickery is afoot, he reckons, but can’t quite put his finger on it. Arthur has been to many places – more than the average human, most definitely – and felt like a stranger, a tourist, an _alien_ , ironically. The beauty of travel is the discovery of experiences previously thought impossible or inaccessible. The deadly downside is the sensation of isolation that, inevitably, accompanies them. Ford never suffered from this problem, or perhaps he did but simply paid no attention to it; it did not bother him, feeling like an outsider. That was – and is still – his job: to subjectively note and categorise other worlds not belonging to him. Arthur followed, lost, fears smothered by awe and admiration, simply unable to do anything else.

Why is it now he feels this wave of thoughts and memories threatening to engulf him? Him, Arthur Dent, human, preparing to take a journey to foreign lands and territories never seen previously by the eyes of his kind – this is the beginning of everything and yet he’s never felt more at home. Somehow leaving seems a horrific prospect.

He turns his thoughts back to the man opposite him who has been quietly observing him all this time; the notion that his descent into reminiscence has had an audience appalls him and he feels exposed, like he’s not dressed in his pyjamas but instead in nothing at all. He shifts his legs closer together.

“So, there must have been a reason for you to invite me in, besides ridiculing my attire.” Arthur poses a change of topic and Sherlock leans forward, pulling his knees up to his chest in an obliging and almost childlike gesture.

“I find you interesting.” He replies, curling long fingers around the curve of his kneecaps, “I enjoy surrounding myself with interesting things.”

“Oh, _please_. I’m not interesting.” Arthur scoffs.

“You’re a _space explorer_.”

There’s an almost violent jab of a laugh from the explorer in question, “Okay, fair enough. So what do you do, besides _surround yourself with interesting things_?”

Sherlock hooks his chin over the crest of his left knee and shifts his hands down to grasp his ankles almost like he’s cuffing himself to the armchair. “I’m a Consulting Detective.” He enunciates with an over-elaborate diction rooted in pride. “Only one in the world.”

“Is that supposed to make me lament that I’m not the only ‘space explorer’?”

The detective shrugs, “Not unless you want to. But I _am_ the only Consulting Detective.”

“How can you know?”

“I invented the job.”

Arthur laughs again; this time it’s softer, more like an exhale, “Why didn’t I think of that.”

“Because you’re an idiot.” Sherlock anticipates the indignant jerk of the head and he’s not disappointed. _Well done, Arthur, you play your part magnificently_. “It’s okay, everyone is. You may know about space but I know about people. How they think, react, process, emote. I was able to tell your life story from your exterior appearance, now isn’t that something.”

Despite being fantastically regular merely moments before, the Spaceman suddenly diverts, careers off the path of typical human behaviour, the classic response to the customary Holmes party piece. He looks Sherlock up and down; he looks _bored_.

“What do you know about space?” He asks instead, cornering Sherlock into a retort that isn’t thought out or remotely intelligent:

“I know lots about space.” The detective barks, inexplicably offended.

Arthur Dent may be headstrong and quite partial to a light altercation (only the fun kind, though; never with robots) but he knows when to quit pushing the buttons of a man he’s known all of… about twenty minutes, if the clock is to be believed. So, instead of taking a left into Boasting Avenue (God knows Sherlock Holmes has a permanent residence there – unfortunately Arthur is not privy to such information), he instead verges right and tries a different, less abrasive tack.

“So, this ‘John’.” He begins; Sherlock motions at the name like he’s just been woken from a deep and perturbing sleep, “You said he was your ‘partner’? Does that mean you’re…?”

“Together, yes. _Lovers_ , you might say.” Sherlock affirms with a touch of both smugness and pride.

“Right. Thought so.”

There’s a contented silence for about ten seconds.

“‘Thought so’? What do you mean, you ‘ _thought so_ ’?” The detective seems unable to decide where to pitch his speech: it barks like annoyance and whines like petulance, with ghosts of breath like the victim of some major offence.

“Well, you know,” Arthur sets about saving his skin, “when you just have a feeling about that sort of thing. I’m not saying it’s _bad_ or anything.”

“Of course not; I should hope not.”

Sherlock’s gaze is a virulent, tempestuous, rumbling thunderstorm, all purples and greys and shades to black. Arthur finds himself sinking further back into the armchair and flashes of knowledge flicker in his mind: _On no account should you allow a Vogon to read poetry at you_ suddenly resurfaces abruptly, confusingly.

On no account should you insult Sherlock Holmes and expect to live out the day.

“You just…” The Spaceman struggles to find the appropriate phrase, “…seem like the type.”

Of course, that wasn’t the appropriate phrase.

“How _dare_ you! I am not… the _TYPE_! I am most definitely not the ‘type’ of anything, thank you very much! I’m one of a kind! A maverick! A rare specimen! I’m Sherlock Holmes!”

There’s something about the melodrama that amuses Arthur Dent. Something in the way the detective’s eyes alight with self-righteous fury when they really have no right to – why is this so hilarious to him? A mere mortal would be unnerved, perhaps, scared, definitely. Human beings – _English_ human beings, at least – are programmed to feel small when someone takes issue with their previous utterance. They do not become defensive, no matter how much they would like to. From childhood, from a puberty coloured by teachers who abhor the retort, those who talk back – it’s looked down on: having your own opinion, disagreeing with authority – a Briton learns to swallow and accept the insult to their intelligence and importance. Oh, so you’ve just pushed in front of me in this queue? Never mind that I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes already, it’s okay, you’ve probably just not noticed me here. I’ll simply wait until you do.

Arthur Dent used to be like this. Strange how space just sort of… changes you.

He laughs. Sherlock’s audible fuming stops, glissandoing down in pitch like when one pulls the plug out of a hoover. Arthur knows there’s probably a joke there: What’s the difference between Sherlock Holmes and a hoover? They both suck but only one of them cleans.

That’s so awful he laughs again.

“I don’t know,” He shrugs, the afterglow of his chuckling still playing on his quirked up lips, “you just don’t seem all that picky.”

Sherlock would really enjoy arguing that but not even he – King (or, perhaps, more appropriately: Queen) of Altercations – can dispute that one.

“I suppose you are correct. But John…” He allows himself a wistful pause to cheer him up; he’s earned another quiet bit of drama by taking the hit, “John is different.”

At this specific point in time John Watson is feeling neither different nor remarkably special – the emotions predominating seem to be annoyance, frustration, overwhelming tiredness and a strong desire towards the destruction of everyone in the Earth, only pacified by the truly overwhelming nature of his aforementioned tiredness.

He scans the surrounding area for possible places for a kip and is disgusted by the lack of bed-like structures positioned along the road. He may not be surprised but he is still disgusted. Necessity has forced him far away from the familiarity of Baker Street; the idea of escaping his surroundings had appeared glorious to him before when faced with an empty fridge and lazy flatmate, but now he’s cold and tired and pissed off and just generally _confused_ as to why he’s been driven out so far.

Originally John had simply popped next door to enquire whether Speedy’s had any milk they were willing to sell him. This was where the confusion had started: upon hearing the question, the burly Eastern-European woman behind the counter (whom John knew very well and got on famously with despite never actually learning her name) had responded with wide-eyed, flat out dismissal, as if by even suggesting such a transaction John was breaking some deep-set moral code. She had glanced up at the ceiling – to the security camera, John supposed – then bustled out of the room, either oblivious to or not caring about the fact she was leaving the entire café unstaffed.

He had then proceeded down the road to the nearest newsagent’s. Baker Street was full of them. There truly was something about the area that seemed to breed them like rabbits; when the pair had first moved in, they’d remarked (well, John had – Sherlock never went grocery shopping) how far they had to trek to get their bare essentials. Now all it takes is a quick trip down the pavement to one of a wide selection of stereotypically foreign-owned corner shops.

First newsagent’s was like a ghost town. Or, at least, a ghost shop. John had entered and enquired and called out a quick “anybody there?” and been met with frustrating silence. The shelves were full, but the chill cabinets unhelpfully empty, so he left.

In the second, the owner had been engaged in bubble-wrapping every object he could get his hands on, weeping quietly to himself. John hadn’t thought it polite to disturb him by asking if his equally empty fridge was going to be restocked any time soon, so he left.

The third had nothing to offer except empty shelves and lots and lots of crackers. And sachets of jelly. Both good things but of no immediate use of the doctor, so he left.

Finally the fourth was packed solidly with vaguely hysterical people all shouting various commands and insults and “get out of the way!” (with no apparent queuing system, how blasphemously un-English of them) and there was no way John was venturing anywhere near _that_ , thank you very much, so he left.

Thoroughly giving up on the idea of acquiring milk from a reasonably close distance to his home, John resigned to trek to their nearest supermarket: ASDA. He’s still somewhat scarred from his self-service machine assault all those months ago, but through perseverance and Army resilience and a strong will to overcome his incapacitating fear of the particular supermarket chain, John has developed something of a tolerance for the place. He chooses Sainsbury’s over Smartprice any day, but ASDA is nearer and when necessity stipulates it, John Watson goes forth.

That’s basically a long-winded way of saying that he still hates the place but right now he’s so frustrated and milk-deprived he’ll go anywhere that’s closest.

Somehow, whilst embroiled in his round tour of Baker Street’s most _fabulous_ convenience stores, John had failed to pick up on the illogicality of the situations that had presented themselves to him. He’d honestly been focused on his own plight (a technique picked up from Sherlock: the King of both Altercations and Self-Obsession – he rules over many kingdoms, all of them annoying) to even notice that… well, what’s going on isn’t normal. Still indulging himself in egocentric behaviour, John once again neglects to notice the people hurrying down their front paths and frantically bolting themselves indoors; when he passes a furniture store on his way down the street he doesn’t stop and acknowledge the seventeen people sat on the shop’s floor with paper bags over their heads. It’s only when he reaches The Satan Store (ASDA, for those not equipped with a John Watson Quirk Translator) and finds the entire area jammed with cars and general yelling people making spectacles out of themselves and all trying to squash their variously sized selves through the broken automatic doors of the supermarket’s entrance, that he finally twigs.

“Oh.” John Watson says upon viewing this sight with suddenly functional eyes. He stops the nearest passer-by with a polite introduction and request to linger about him for a moment; the red-haired woman looks more than a bit concerned with being prevented in her path towards consumerism but stops anyway – she is English, after all.

“What’s… going on?” John asks her; it’s banal but the only thing he can come up with in response to the chaos playing out majestically in front of him. She jerks her gaze around the area as if following the flight path of a particularly erratic wasp, resigned panic colouring her heavy features.

“I’m sorry, I’d love to help,” She addresses the doctor without actually looking at him, still absorbed in trying to catalogue every nuance of their surroundings in a juddering manner, “but I really must be off. If it’s what they say… I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”

She leaves without having gazed at him once. He could be George Clooney and she wouldn’t have noticed. John isn’t sure whether to be concerned by this or not. In fact, the general points of the situation surrounding him seem to be indicating that he should be panicking, or at least making some form of loud noise. He’s not doing either of those.

He ventures a little closer to the entrance and attempts to speak to a couple more people but achieves nothing except the vague descriptions of a tall, ginger man and the phrase “it’s happening again”, which is apparently significant but in no way helps John to discern why he is currently unable to buy four pints of skimmed milk on a Tuesday morning.

Finally, _sans_ milk and _sans_ tolerance for the pandemonium any longer, John abandons his plans for a calcium-filled breakfast and decides on toast instead. He sort of regrets not making this decision earlier – it would have saved him this monster trek and what he is pretty sure is a perforated ear drum – but once again thinks in uncharacteristic French: _c’est la vie_. That damn Holmes is rubbing off on him. As well as _up on_ him, actually – John sniggers and a slightly deranged-looking pensioner castigates him as he passes with an indistinguishable “myehhh!” sound of disgust and terror. John shrugs. Now probably isn’t the time to be thinking about sex, but in public there never really is a right time.

Sherlock Holmes may not be in public, but he has no problems with thinking about sex. Or talking about sex. At great length. To Arthur Dent.

“…But last time we did that John wasn’t all that keen; I told him that I’d washed the crop thoroughly since I- well, I got Molly to do it, but that’s all the same thing. She was more than happy to oblige; she’s a perverse woman, normally I’d like that sort of thing but she’s just _annoying_ with it. But somehow, still, _apparently_ it’s _morally wrong_ or something. Reminds him too much of death.”

Arthur does not think it proper to inform Sherlock that after over half an hour of detail into every nuance of the two men’s lives, careers and sexual positions, he is comprehensively _bored_. For a man who revels in being difficult, abrupt, brusque with his replies, get Sherlock onto the right topic and he can’t half _talk, Christ_.

So, therefore, when the sharp rap of the knocker for 221 Baker Street sounds out through the confines of the upstairs flat, Arthur Dent straightens up in his chair. Sherlock Holmes remains inert except for his mouth, which continues to flap and produce highly personal information.

“He’s also not comfortable with me using while we actually have intercourse, which I find ridiculous. It’s all down to him being a doctor, you know – one time I began to hallucinate and spent the entire time trying to suck off his kneecap. It looked like a penis, I’m telling you-”

Stomping up the stairs halts him before he can reveal anything else of a sensitive nature, along with some languid twittering from downstairs. So _now_ Mrs Hudson decides to be in and answer doors, how wonderful that she finally makes an appearance when the detective doesn’t give a fuck.

Suddenly a man appears in the doorway of 221B and Sherlock’s giving-a-fuck-o-meter suddenly ratchets up to “JOHN!”.

The doctor views Sherlock first, emits a sigh long enough to have its own commercial break, then switches his eyes to the other man seated in their flat and almost falls over with the shock.

“Holy-“

“Oh, hello John.” Sherlock always likes to appear that he is always only vaguely appreciative of John’s presence, when in fact his inner normal human being is jumping up and down like a six year-old faced with a train set.

“Who is this?” John half enquires, half berates. He’s used to Sherlock bringing assorted randoms home, but they’re usually either handcuffed to tables or taped to a dining chair, accompanied with explanations like “I’m just keeping him here while I ring Lestrade, look after him for one second, would you?” and “Spanish foreign secretary. Don’t pay him any attention.” Which aren’t really explanations at all, when he thinks about it. Except this one… _bloody hell_ , this is past disturbing and into terrifying.

“Mmmm? Oh, Arthur!” Sherlock extends a splayed palm to the man opposite, eyes still on the doctor in the doorway, “John, this is Arthur… er…” He turns his expectant gaze to the Spaceman.

“Dent.”

“Arthur Dent. Arthur, this is Doctor John Watson.”

Arthur relaxes back into his chair, feeling no less tense but also the need to exhale loudly. “So that’s the John you meant when you said…” His eyes widen briefly, “You’re not wrong.”

When Sherlock transfers his eye line back to John, he finds his partner looking a little worse for wear. Certainly moreso than his… well, _doppelganger_ , to descend into _Fremdsprachen_.

“Sherlock,” John ventures cautiously, as if by speaking he will exacerbate the appearance of the man in his armchair, “he looks… How the hell did you-?”

“For once I did not engineer this. Arthur here is a space explorer who seems to have gotten lost. I was merely offering him shelter and conversation until you returned.”

Upon hearing this, John laughs. It isn’t nervous laughter; he genuinely believes that what he is hearing is meant to be humorous banter designed to relieve him of his troubles and all memory of his previous ordeals. Sherlock does this sometimes. Whenever John trudges through the door with his patients’ worries on his back, Sherlock usually resorts to one of two methods of action: either he invents some ludicrous fact or makes up some absurd joke to force John into laughing away the rawness, or grabs him by the waist and coerces him into emitting some different sorts of noises. Arthur knows _all about this_.

“You’re a space explorer… and you’re talking to Sherlock?” John finally turns and addresses the man in question; it’s remarkably like looking into a subtle fairground mirror, “The man who doesn’t even… if this were true, it’d be hilarious.”

“I regret I am unable to see the funny side, John.” Sherlock replies despite not being addressed. John laughs again, proceeding towards Arthur.

“You know, right, he didn’t know that the Earth goes round the Sun. He actually _did not know_.”

“I don’t see how this is _RELEVANT_ ,” Sherlock interjects with alarmed abruptness. Arthur switches his gaze to the detective, laughing in a scarily similar way to his twin; it sounds like he’s trapped in a cave with a permanent echo. There’s no way their voices can sound so similar too – this is just a mind trip.

“ _You really didn’t know_?”

“Anyway,” Sherlock sits up in his chair, coughing and shuffling, “if we are unable to stop being infantile… He is actually a space explorer.”

John snorts, “Don’t be an idiot; of course he isn’t a space explorer. He’s wearing a dressing gown.”

“And you’re wearing that jumper again, but I don’t bring that up.”

“You just di- Doesn’t matter…” The doctor sets about ignoring his flatmate. “Sorry, my friend is an arsehole. Who are you again?”

“Arthur Dent. ‘Space Explorer’. He’s not joking.” Arthur replies with unnecessary jazz hands. John emits a coughing, choking sort of laugh and turns once more back to Sherlock; he’s beginning to become dizzy and he’s not sure if that’s from attempting to comprehend the situation or the tennis match-like head jerking he’s being forced into.

“How much have you paid him? This isn’t really funny anymore.”

“I’m glad we are on the same page. Arthur here was apparently sent to our house by his friend Ford. They’re going off to explore space. But instead of Ford, he found me. What a coincidence.”

“Stop… this. Just stop it, Sherlock.”

“Stop what? Offering hospitality to a man who needs it?”

“I’m not having him here if he’s just going to fuel your insanity.”

“Arthur is doing nothing of the sort.”

The man in question rises slightly in his chair with raised palms, “I don’t want to cause trouble. We could… just leave the matter of my space exploration for now?”

“Yes, of course. Forget the Spaceman. Why not.”

Sherlock looks inexplicably smug. John, slightly peeved that his sarcastic and witty retort has gone unappreciated, decides to take the higher ground by instead being frustratingly polite. He turns back to Arthur with his typical ‘affable doctor’ smile and holds out his hand. Arthur stares at it.

“Well, anyway, hello. I’m John Watson.”

“Sherlock already said. He’s told me a lot about you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He told me you’re a ‘damn good shag’.”

John splutters extravagantly on his own saliva, “ _Did he now_.”

“Yes. In fact, the majority of the things he told me were about your sexual exploits. And that you like tea.” Arthur raises his hands and gestures to his chest, looking theatrically surprised, “As do _I_.”

“Isn’t that remarkable.” Sherlock adds; John turns to him with a ‘no one asked you’ look. “You both enjoy tea. English Breakfast, of course. No bastardisations of a perfectly respectable beverage are to be permitted within these walls.” He gazes around the room airily for a short while, perfectly content, then continues: “So. I think now would be a good time for us all to have sex.”

This time it is not just John whose reaction involves violent recoiling and the sputtering of oral fluids. Arthur’s elbow drops off the armrest of the armchair, sending his head jerking downwards involuntarily towards the not-so-padded length and forcing him to emit a girlish shriek of fear. He straightens up almost immediately, casting glances around in the vain hope his little turn has gone unnoticed. Thankfully for him, John is still engaged in being absolutely appalled with his flatmate and partner.

Sherlock merely leans back further in his chair and raises his eyebrows, “You wish to tell me that the thought hasn’t even crossed your mind at all?”

“Yes,” John barks back, “I’d very much like to tell you that.”

“Interesting. It was almost instantaneous for me.”

“Well isn’t that surprising.”

The detective raises a lazy, offensive hand, “You are both attractive men, almost clone-like in similarities, therefore I would get to sample the delight of twin Johns, if you’ll forgive the expression; you are aware of John’s carnal prowess, Arthur – I have just spent the last eleven minutes detailing it to you; both of you get to enjoy the act of fornication with me, which is a rare – not specifically for you, John, of course, but consider that a triviality – and valued experience others would be fairly likely to murder for. I’ve seen it done. Those are the three most overt reasons, although I do have a long list – shall I go on?”

“Please God don’t.” John half shouts, half pleads. He’s not sure how much more of this mortification he can physically _take_ , really. He may be ex-Army but that’s the thing – he’s _ex_ -Army – and he’s not as resilient to stress and shock as he used to be. Now he isn’t about to go blaming his PTSD for everything (he’s known enough soldiers bring that excuse out more than their driving license and _oh it grated_ ), but, no matter how psychosomatic, he can feel that ghostly pain returning to haunt his leg. If that’s a valid cop-out of this… _situation_ , then he’s going to bloody well use it. He turns to Arthur, panic colouring his face like whey, “Arthur, I’m sorry for my flatmate’s wild suggestions; he’s _highly_ inappropriate and-”

The Spaceman’s response is plain and simply put: “I’m in.”

John makes a noise that sounds like an engine backfiring; any other situation and he’d probably be quietly impressed at the range of interesting sounds his humble body can produce. But, unsurprisingly, John Watson is hardly _impressed_ by the mess he seems to have embroiled himself in just by walking through his front door.

“ _What_?”

Arthur shrugs acquiescently, “My girlfriend’s left me, I haven’t had sex in weeks and I’m about to embark on a space mission for pretty much the rest of my existence. So yeah, I think I’m going to take you up on your offer.”

If this were a cartoon Sherlock’s eyes would be rolling like a fruit machine; they settle on $$$ as he contemplates the jackpot he’s about to receive. He wonders if ‘Ford’ would notice if he sent John in place of this desperate fellow, although he’s sure he’d probably miss the doctor if he went away for- okay, no, this idea is seeming like a bad one. He’d miss John like he’d miss his pancreas, for example: he assumes any absence of John would feel just the same as an absence of insulin or somatostatin. Probably worse.

Contrary to the sentimentality of his thoughts, Sherlock holds up his hands and announces: “Glad to hear that’s settled. John, take your clothes off. Arthur…” He smirks, “Leave the dressing gown on.”

John, sputtering, does _not_ follow the order given. Instead he beckons to the Consulting Detective to rise from his chair and follow _him_ instead; a stern talking to is in order and John intends to be the one to give it.

“Sherlock? A word?” His voice rises at the end with a faint tinge of hysteria.

Sherlock shrugs and allows himself to be led into the spare room – it used to be John’s bedroom before the two of them decided that sharing a bed was preferable to arguing over whose room was elected to be wrecked by coitus this time. The quarrel about which one of them was to move was swift and inevitable: Sherlock won. To be honest, both of them saw that outcome a mile off.

The detective should be able to see this bollocking a mile off, too, but John is going to make sure by enforcing it with vigour.

“What,” he pauses, either to compose himself or exploit the fact he has Sherlock’s undivided attention, he isn’t sure, “the _hell_ do you think you are doing.”

Sherlock looks at him as if the man had announced he can only recite Pi to five decimal places. After remaining with his features fixed in such a manner for well over ten seconds, Sherlock lets out a quick puff of a sigh and adds: “We’d be doing him a favour.”

John laughs, “Don’t go telling me this is some selfless gesture to help a man you’ve known all of… an hour or so?”

“And what if it were?”

“It’s not.”

“You see the man: he’s practically desperate, poor soul. I can sense the sexually frustrated the moment I converse with them. There’s always a certain… tightness to their speech.” He looks at John pointedly, one eyebrow quirking upwards as a sort of challenge.

“Don’t you even _try_ to play that one with me. I am perfectly- I’m not even going to have this conversation with you. No sex.” His arms cross each other in an ‘x’ through the air at his words. “And don’t you dare go ahead and do this anyway. That’s called cheating and I will break up with you faster than you can even _begin_ to conjure up an excuse.”

“It wouldn’t be cheating if you joined in.”

“Sherlock- I thought we had just established that I am doing nothing of the sort. So if you don’t mind, I am going to go and…”

The detective is quick to finish his lover’s sentence: “Read the newspaper? Make some toast? Reorganise your journals? I’m sure you could categorise them better than _alphabetically_ , John, how elementary of you.”

At this John stops his gazing about and shifts his stare to Sherlock, trying to suss out his angle. Of course there has to be one. Of course.

“And what if I were to do that. You wouldn’t stop me?”

Sherlock pulls a face like he resents the question, “Of course not.”

“Fine. Right. Good.” John immediately turns to exit the room, feeling vaguely triumphant but… sourly so. Like it’s tarnished somehow. God damn it.

“I’d just wonder when you became so boring.”

John halts in his tracks and lets out a laugh that he doesn’t feel.

“I _knew_ there would be a catch. _Knew_ it.” He turns, face set like sceptical thunder. “I am not boring.”

Sherlock gives him a look. John is familiar with this look, in fact, his body seems to sense it before his mind does; this is the look that precedes a long and exhaustive monologue detailing in just what precise ways you were wrong, and Sherlock right. “This morning we had an argument about the lack of milk in our fridge, culminating in you storming out. Two days ago you returned from work and disappeared straight into the bedroom to read the Dan Brown ‘novel’ you’ve been struggling through for a week. You take baths instead of showers now and never let me join in. We haven’t eaten out in precisely thirty-four days. Last night I leant over to kiss you and you said ‘Not now, Sherlock, I’m really tired’. So either you are pregnant or you’ve just become extremely boring.”

When John simply stares at him and says nothing, Sherlock adds: “You don’t need to tell me you’re not pregnant. Somehow I was able to deduce that.”

There is another pause with a very, _very_ unhappy John Watson as the cause.

“So maybe I’ve just become… comfortable, recently. You think a _threesome_ is going to help… _cure me_ of that?”

“No. But it’ll be fun. Go on, _live a little_.” Sherlock’s eyes gleam. “Afghanistan is just one blow job away…” He mutters, leading an almost acquiescent John back towards the sitting room.

“I do rather hope not.” John adds, fearing some extra-terrestrial teleportation to be afoot.  
The two men stride into the room to see Arthur sitting there, clothes pooled round his ankles, self-consciously holding his dressing gown round himself.

 _So he actually did. Wow._

Sherlock turns to John, eyes wide and almost engorged by the promise the sight holds. “Mrs Hudson still in?”

“I reckon we can risk it.” John assesses; the lovers rotate their gazes back to Arthur simultaneously like mannequins with a grip on their crown. “You know how all this is supposed to work?” He enquires to the all-knowing.

“I’ve got _absolutely no idea_.” Sherlock admits, unbuttoning his shirt.

\--

Despite all three participants not really having much of a clue as to what a threesome demanded of them, the whole thing seemed – to use a slightly awkward idiom – to slot into place unconsciously. There were no squabbles over the roles each of them were to take (Sherlock’s tyrannical imperiousness finally proved _useful_ , for once) and no awkward breaks in the moment, discounting the instance when Arthur emitted a rather girlish sort of squeak… _thing_ after a well-placed finger from the doctor. The flatmates had been overcome by giggles while the visitor stared blankly at them, eyes glazed with arousal, too turned on to care about minor humiliation. Once the mirth had subsided, events took a slightly more serious turn; John took a firm grasp of the rug and battled against his eyes – they seemed engaged in trying to roll back into his skull while he was intent on being able to see the performance unfold in front of him.

It had been weird, watching himself practically fellate… _himself_. Sherlock had almost come at the sight, gripping onto John’s shoulders like the bones had suddenly been zapped out of his legs and groaning into the nape of his neck with an indecent sort of roar. This was an image Sherlock knew he was unlikely to see again; however, the distinct reason _why_ was above the scope of even the great detective.

He didn’t bother with that, instead focusing his attention on more _interesting_ matters.

So now the trio are recumbent; Sherlock’s limbs are splayed over John in an almost pornographic position necessitated by his excessive languor and inability to muster up the fucks to give in order to look presentable; Arthur lies half propped up against John’s armchair, chin on his chest. John is pretty much happy with his lot.

Suddenly Arthur lets out a startled sort of “uffgh” noise and looks up, scanning the room with an urgency incongruous to the situation: “Did the Earth move for you?”

Sherlock obviously isn’t too tired to laugh and make a snarky comment. He probably has energy reserves for that sort of thing; he could be dying and he’d still be able to insult the doctors treating him.

“Well, Arthur, I’m flattered by your-” Sherlock croons before he is cut off by a raised hand. The action is once again far too swift.

“No, seriously.” Arthur hisses, “Did the Earth just mo-?”

Outside in Baker Street there is a ginger gentleman belatedly scrambling along the pavements, calling for his absent friend.

In a spaceship hovering high above the Earth, the Captain laughs and gives the command.

\--


End file.
